THE CAT WHO SAW STARS_

Next, Qwilleran went to Huggins Hardware for mosquito repellent and shook hands with Cecil Huggins and his great-uncle, a white-bearded man who had worked in the store since the age of twelve.

“Mosquitoes not so bad this year, are they, Unc?”

“Nope,” said the old man. “Weather’s too dry.” The store had a carefully cultivated old-time country-store atmosphere that appealed to vacationers from Down Below: rough wood floors, old showcases, and such merchandise as pitchforks, kerosene lanterns, fifty-pound salt blocks, goat feed, and nails by the pound.

“What can you tell me about the new restaurant?” Qwilleran asked.

“On Sandpit Road, across from the Great Dune Motel,” Cecil replied. “Same building where the Chinese restaurant opened and closed last summer. A couple came up from Florida to run it for the tourist season. The chamber of commerce ran an ad in Florida papers - business opportunity with special perks. The guy’s name is Owen Bowen. His wife’s the chef.”

“

“Food’s too fancy,” said the old man.

“Perhaps for campers and locals,” Cecil admitted, “but the whole idea is to get summer people from the Grand Island Club to come here on their yachts and spend money.”

“What were the special perks?”

“Pretty generous, we thought. The landlord gave him a break on the rent. The Northern Lights Hotel gave him a suite for the price of a single. Chamber members pitched in and redecorated the restaurant before the Bowens got here.”

“‘T were all red last year,” said Unc.

“Yes, we painted the walls, cleaned the kitchen, washed the windows … You’d think he’d be tickled pink, wouldn’t you? But no! He came to a chamber meeting bellyaching about this, that, and the other thing. Then he wanted us to change the name of the Great Dune to the White Cliffs. He said it was more glamorous, more promotable. He talked down to us as if we were a bunch of hicks.”

“And how did that suggestion go over?” Qwilleran asked.

“Like a lead balloon! Everybody knows a cliff is rock. Our dune is pure sand. Cliffs are a dime a dozen, but where can you find a dune like ours? We voted against the idea unanimously, and he stomped out of the meeting like a spoiled kid.”

“If he ain’t careful,” the old man said with a chuckle, “he’ll get the Sand Giant riled up.”

Qwilleran said he hoped the food was better than Owen’s personality. “Have you tried it?”

“Not yet, but they say it’s good. They say his wife’s nice. Too bad Owen turned out to be disagreeable.”

“He’s a horse’s tail!” said Unc.

“One more thing,” Qwilleran mentioned. “I have a screened door with a rat-tail latch that gets stuck the bar doesn’t drop. I’m afraid the cats could push the door open.”

“Easy,” said Cecil and sold him a can of spray-lubricant.

After the formal handshaking, Qwilleran ambled over to Elizabeth Hart’s boutique on Oak Street at the foot of the Great Dune. Having saved her life once upon a time he felt a godfatherly interest in her well-being. She had belonged to the Grand Island set, and there was something subtly different in her grooming, clothing, speech, manner, and ideas. A Chicago heiress, she had visited Moose County, met Derek Cuttlebrink, and decided to stay. They were good for each other. He had toned down her citified pretensions without spoiling her individuality; she had convinced him to enroll in restaurant management at Moose County Community College, and it was Derek who had renamed her boutique.

It was now called Elizabeth’s Magic. Unlike the surrounding souvenir shops, it featured exotic wearables, crafts by local artisans, and such mystic paraphernalia as tarot cards, rune stones, Ouija boards, and good-luck jewelry. There was also a coffee dispenser in the rear of the shop and a ring of chairs in aluminum and black nylon.

When Qwilleran walked in, Elizabeth was busy with customers but waved an airy greeting and said, “Don’t go away; I have news for you.” For a few minutes he joined the browsers, then gravitated toward the coffee dispensary. After a while, Elizabeth joined him, leaving a husky male assistant to keep an eye on idle sightseers and take the money of paying customers.

Qwilleran asked, “Is your shop sponsoring a football team? Or is he a bouncer?” He was one of the big blond youths indigenous to the north country.

“That’s Kenneth, a rising senior at Mooseland High,” she said. “He’s my stockboy and delivery man, and I’m breaking him in on sales… Are you going to the parade tomorrow, Qwill? I designed the chamber of commerce float - the signing of the Declaration of Independence, based on the John Turnbull painting.”

“I know it,” Qwilleran said. “It’s in Philadelphia. Who’ll play the roles of the signers?”

“C of C members, all in 1776 costumes: wigs, knee breeches, satin waistcoats, jabots, buckle shoes. We’re renting everything from a theater supply house in Chicago.”

“That’s a big investment,” Qwilleran said. “Who’s paying?”

“You!” she said with glee. “Well, not exactly you, but the K Fund. We applied for a grant.”

“Is Derek going to be in the parade?”